Human Development: Intermission
by doesnotloveyou
Summary: A canon series of brief one-shots from my fic "Human Development" (cover photo by Craig Schlewitz).
1. Chapter 1

**These are canon one-shots from a fic I've been writing involving my original characters. I'd suggest reading the main fic first if you care to avoid spoilers and/or know what on earth is going on.**

* * *

- _Matt, 2001 -_

He wrinkles his nose at her breath. Jackie tugs the bowtie and leans back. She giggles. "You look like a conductor."

Matthew tugs at the crooked tie. "It's too tight."

"Oh stop that," she smacks his hand, teetering as she does so, "you'll make me have to do it all over again."

She turns to walk out the door when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Matthew rolls his eyes and walks past her. Jackie catches him by the collar with one manicured finger as she tries to fluff out her bangs with the other hand. "Goddamn, these are going out of style."

Matthew puffs at his own shaggy hair. "Mooooom."

"Yah, yah. Go get in the car."

"I look like a damn girl."

Jackie looks at him and quirks her lips. "Yeah, maybe, Mattie."

"How many times do I have to tell you to quit calling him that?" Robert steps around the boy as he enters the room readjusting his cufflinks. "I didn't name him 'Madeline' I named him _Matthew_."

"You didn't name him at all." Jackie hiccups. "Matthew was my-"

"Can we possibly go ten minutes without you mentioning your dead relatives? Matt," Robert scrunches his brow, "go put on a real tie."

"You've _never _cared about my family!" Jackie raises an accusatory finger, blinking to make sure it's aimed at her husband.

"Oh please, we haven't the time to argue about-"

Matthew steps out into the hall and heads for the bathroom.

"You think I'm not going to divorce you? I swear I'll do it!"

"What would be the point? You've already drunk all my alcohol, what else is there for you to take?"

He finds the drawer full of Jackie's hair supplies and pulls out a long, gleaming pair of scissors. The verbal blows ricochet down the hall, bouncing off chairs, and picture frames, and doorknobs, before cavorting around the bathroom. All is lost on Matthew, cushioned by his own selective deafness as he calmly cuts off his hair.

* * *

- _Vincent, 2006 -_

One wheel on the cart squeaks and wobbles as it trundles painfully down the aisle. Catherine remains expressionless as she goes through the routine. Canada Dry, Shasta Cola, Vanilla Crème. Her upper arm jiggles as she reaches for a pack of Miller. "I don't know _what _your uncle likes to drink, so he's on his own."

Vincent refrains from responding as he walks down the opposite side of the aisle. The bleary linoleum scuffs under his soles. His brows furrow in annoyance at the sound of someone coming. He distances himself further from his mother as a pair of teenage girls passes by wordlessly.

_Fuck, I hate her. Like, slut much? First my brother and now my ex, what a bi…_

_…this can't be happening to me. I swear he was wearing a condom, I swear. Just get rid of it, Dad'll never know..._

Vincent's headache throbs. Catherine looks askance at them, then at him. "Don't worry. They wouldn't want a loser like you anyway."

He ignores her, glancing up at the piñatas dangling shabbily over his head. A dingy yellow school bus leers at him with its stickered face. He rubs the back of his neck and keeps walking. The wheel screeches in agony.

* * *

_ - Logan, 2009 -_

The greasy countertop catches the fluorescent lights dully, diffusing now and again for an ancient water ring. Decades of cigarettes have left their redolent traces in the walls and yellowing linoleum, reminding the patrons just how long death can linger.

Logan stubs out the Cohiba in the dingy glass tray and takes a drink. He doesn't like frequenting one bar for too long in a strange place. People start sniffing around. Especially if they think they've seen you on TV. He's a little pleased and a little bothered by his ability to peel off a clean bill. No more crumpled bet money from cage-fighting and other distasteful jobs.

The news natters away on a small set turned to face the barkeep. Heat waves, foreclosures, unemployment, and a missing millionaire. None of it means a damn thing.

Glass empty, bill paid, Logan begrudges himself an apathetic look in the wall-length mirror behind the bar. _You sure don't look like a schoolteacher. Definitely not a husband._

* * *

- _Vincent, 2009 -_

There's a dim light in the room. He can just make out her soft silhouette, seated on the edge of the bed. She runs her fingers over his cheek and smiles, the corners of her eyes lifting. She somehow seems even lovelier in the dark. He smiles back, tempted to reach up and touch her face too.

Standing up, she walks gracefully over to the window. He sighs and sinks deeper into the blankets, at peace with himself. The blinds are raised with a startling noise, and she shouts suddenly,

"Wake up! Wake up! Asshole, _wake up_!"

Light bursts violently into the room, filling every corner with flame.

He jumps to his feet, instantly awake, frantically brushing leaves from his hair. John grabs him roughly by the front of his jacket and together they crash through the undergrowth, taunting cries cavorting about the trees.

* * *

_ - Matt, 2010 -_

Women complain outside the stall, smacking the door with their palms, impatiently waiting to use the bathroom. Their angry voices blend well with the music, a dark, frantic rhythm that batters the walls. This one, with her smeared mascara and damp bangs, roams him greedily, her hands venturing into exciting places. He gasps and clings to her feverishly, his back to the cool tile. The beat reverberates through him.

Stupidly, his lips fumble with hers. _Cherry Chapstick. _His cell phone vibrates in his back pocket, again, for maybe the eighth time tonight. He groans into her mouth and throws the device at the toilet. It clatters against the seat before falling in with a somber splash.

_Call me now, Mom._

* * *

_ - Vincent, 2010 -_

The drizzle has him damp through. He's blinking away sleep when the sound of the igniter causes him to jump. "Jesus fucking hell."

There's a gleam in John's eyes. "Antsy tonight aren't we?"

He wishes he could use his earphones, but he's on stakeout. Any brain activity that comes within twenty feet needs to be reported immediately. His range is only about ten feet if someone's standing next to him, but no point in telling _them _that. He recites lyrics in his head to kill time.

_I am proud of this great nation._

_I got my fists, I got my pen, I got survivalism._

"Damn." John spits on the slick asphalt as two figures approach in the darkness. He glances up at the high rise, glaring at a third-story window. "They can't do anything right."

* * *

_Lyric Credits: Survivalism - Nine Inch Nails_


	2. Chapter 2

_- Ace & the Doctor, 1985 -_

I slam the bolt and gasp so hard I cough. I turn too quickly and fall to my knees, scraping them against the metal grating. I look around, squinting. This is the biggest room I've ever been in.

The lights are blaring bright, some of them flickering and flashing. Crazy arches hold up the ceiling, and there's a giant, humming machine in the center of the room. It's warm here. Yes, the metal around me is warm, I'm not imagining it. I lay my face against the floor, tuck my numb feet into the stiff coat, and think about how much sleep I used to get in my cell and how tired I got of sleeping. Now I might sleep forever in this bright, warm room with a lock to keep people out. What a nice big room…

There's a buzzing noise near my head. I jump up right away, but my legs are useless and I fall backwards onto my rear, hitting my head on the door.

"Oh no, no, no! Sorrey!" the tall man says with a very hurt face. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

He kneels down to my level, his long brown coat like a tent around his legs. There are two heartbeats inside of him. "How'd you get in here, then? Did I leave the door open again?" Scrunchy-faced, he inspects the door over my head. "Oh, you bolted it yourself, what for, what's following you?"

I don't like all his questions so I growl and curl up tight.

"'Ey," he warns, "don't get grumb'ly with me. I'm not going to hurt you." He pockets the weird pen he was holding and gives me a sudden cheery smile. "I'm the Doctor. What's your name then?"

"I hate doctors," I say before coughing. Talking hurts. "Don't touch me."

"What have the doctors been doing?" His voice changes so often. It's dark and gray sounding now, and his eyes are hard and flat and the smile is gone from every part of his face.

"They hurt m-" I cough again and my throat burns and stings, but I keep coughing like I might never stop.

The doctor bounces up and running over to the big machine, pulls out a drawer. Before I'm done coughing he's back.

"Here," he fiddles with something small wrapped in sticky paper, "put this in your mouth and suck on it."

I don't want to, but then I see it's red, shiny, and too big to be medicine. I can't remember what the word for it is, but it's a good thing I remember. I take it quickly and put it in my mouth. I gag a little. It's not as sweet as I remember it being.

"That should make your throat feel better. Now." He slaps his knees and stands up. His shoes have stars on them. "That door is _locked_, no one can get in at all, ever. Except…sometimes…but only on _very_ specific occasions that _weren't_ my fault."

I'm still looking at his shoes and sucking on the bitter thing in my mouth. My throat does feel better. I look up at his face now and he's looking down at me with his funny, sticky-uppy hair and his pointy face. What a weird guy.

"Were the bad doctors following you?" he asks.

I nod, then shake my head, then don't know what to do. "I killed him, but the soldiers were following me."

"You killed him, wha-? How'd you kill him?"

"Well, maybe I didn't kill him." I test the red sucker between my teeth. "He burned my fingers if I cried during tests."

His eyes get big like pools of water. "Get away from the door, come over here, it's warmer by the console."

I follow him and he sweeps me onto a bench before running out of the room. I crack the sucker between my teeth. Candy. It's called candy. Candy tastes horrible.

He comes bounding back in and covers me in blankets. Then he changes his mind, removes all the blankets, takes away my coat and covers me in blankets again. A pair of fuzzy socks are produced and he stuffs my feet into them. They go up past my knees.

"Hm, I don't know if I have any clothes in _midget_."

I'm not short, but I giggle anyway. His smile is familiar, a medium smile that shows mostly in his eyes. It feels safe, so I smile back. Then I remember why I came in here. "Can you take me far away?"

His smile gets much, much bigger. "Oh, that I can."


End file.
